Two Words
by themanonthemoon
Summary: It didn't matter if River didn't come back at all - younger version, older version; in the end still one River who would ultimately face her untimely death. For what it's worth, she had a Timelord and a daughter to remember her. Always.


5 times. That's how often I've seen you. Well at least the you that knows I exist. It's cold here in Trenzalore. A chilly breeze bites into my exposed neck as I crane my head to look at the blood red sky. Instinctively, I decide that I'll never be too old to have your arms around me. The first time I met you was when I was 6 and you called me your little girl. Since I was my mother's daughter I wasn't particularly fond of the term 'little' but the way you said 'my' made me glow like I just regenerated.

Well know this: I will always be your little girl.

And yes, I am aware that you are a TimeLord native to the planet  
Gallifrey . Mother made sure to brief me about you in case I bumped into a younger version of you. She also thought me the art of disguising foreknowledge with the word 'spoilers.'

I like that word. But there is only one reason why I do: and it is because it reminds me of her. I assume by now that you know she's dead. I realize this because you are my father. Therefore losing River Song to you must have hurt much more. Besides I can see it in your eyes.

I can see your demons buried within you. It's almost like I'm a living part of you (which I am) - a mirror that just reflects all of your emotions. Is that why you never visit?

Sometimes I just want to hold your hand. To ease the ache. To lift the weight off your old eyes. Although I know you will never let me, I hope someday I will be your harbor. Just like how she was; River Song who could swallow your tears and pain and still have room for more.

Even in those 5 brief visits, I feel like I've known you my whole life. Mother told me you tend to leave that effect on people. Well truth to be told: I wouldn't consider myself to be described as just 'people.'

I'm your daughter so if 'people' usually feel flabbergasted, charmed or annoyed when you waltz into their garden then I'm in a turmoil of emotions.

You're the man who married my mother; the most amazing woman I've ever known whose only fortune in all of the sacrifices she went through to be with you was simply that; to see you everyday or not at all.

You told me once to find you. That once I was old enough, I was to search every star in the universe to reach you.

And now I'm here.

And you are dying.

The light is blinding. I see your companion flustered, and helpless. I cannot blame her for I too find my feet rooted. Words of goodbye die in my throat. What does one say to a different face that is still the same man?

Though the question of the man still being my father hung in the air like a hovering guillotine.

Suddenly, the explosion of golden light ceases.

It's over.

And the first thing I notice is the silver flecks on your head, the absence of your beloved quiff.

A deep foreboding starts eating away within me. A somehow firm sense of pessimism tells me you aren't going to remember. For all I know those brief encounters with me bore a different meaning for you. As if you expected you were going to come back the next day. But alas, every visit saw me growing progressively older and you still a fixed point in time. I knew then that you were oblivious. You donned yourself with the false security of reassurance as if all the odds of the universe would bend to your will. As if there would always be a tomorrow. When ultimately, you forgot. Nevertheless, a small part of me still hopes that it was because of your wibbly wobbly delusion of time that made you seem to miss that tomorrow comes in 24 hours and not in 365 days.

I don't need to be told that you don't like endings. But your ignorance towards the reality of time really astounds me. It completely befuddles me that you are just one man. One with optimism that grants you as the hoper of far-flung hopes. And carelessness that makes you the Destroyer of Worlds.

I walk over to where your body lay; still radiating warmth. You whisper gold fumes before opening your eyes with unexpected enthusiasm. I realize your youthfulness is not lost despite your aged appearance. You looked positively glowing and dare I say, smug. You are finally basking in your true colours, inside and out. Before I know it, your fox-like eyes stare back at me, under white sinister eyebrows, glowing pale as winter and your lips are pulled into a bemused smile.

It was that famous cheeky smirk that I have grown so fond of. For a moment it pleases me that some things never change. That there are still fragments of the man you once were. I realize now, that there always will be echoes of the people we've lost. In your case, twelve shades that ultimately encompass one opaque man. I quickly grasp at the translucent state you are in, in which your eleventh attributes, are still peeking from under your new visage.

"Hello Daddy," I whisper running my fingers through your silver flecked hair with shaky hands. A small part of me is laughing at the irony of it all. I shake my head in disbelief, what would mother say if she were here to see this?

Your eyes twinkle when you hear me and suddenly I really wish mother were here. I wonder if you'll even remember her.

And as if reading my mind, you respond to me affectionately while you lay in your companions lap recovering from the afterglow,

Your voice is gravelly and like grandma, utterly Scottish,  
"Hello sweetie."


End file.
